


Who did that?

by BadgerBasher



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: After-grog-bog, Camping, Dutch Ovens, Possible Gastric Distress, Someone's a stinker, The Morning After The Night Before, Toilet humour, hangovers, stew, war room
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 04:03:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5402342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BadgerBasher/pseuds/BadgerBasher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a bad smell in the camp, but did who smelt it deal it? </p><p>Are they just burning the latrines? Or has someone let go?</p><p>What does Iron Bull deem suitable revenge for an early-morning cupcaking?</p><p>Find out in the critically acclaimed "Who did that?"</p><p>DISCLAIMER: by "critically acclaimed," I mean BadgerCat and Grammarly. They're very discerning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There was silence around the fire, broken only by the scratching of The Iron Bull’s pen and the scrape of Cassandra’s whetstone. Dorian mended a tear in his robe, whilst Conrad checked his heavy plate over, testing straps and prodding likely looking bits.

An air of peace reigned supreme, until a sound that could only be described as a wet raspberry rent the quiet night.

“Bull, I don’t expect much from you, but really? Is that necessary?”

The Iron Bull looked up from his missive. “If I were to fart, Dorian, you’d know.”

The two looked over at Conrad, who maintained the appearance of total innocence. He suddenly choked. “Maker’s breath, _who did that?_ ”

“If it wasn’t you, kadan, and it wasn’t me, that does leave Dorian.”

“I assure you two festering swine, _I_ have manners, and _I_ would never pass gas in front of others!”

As the argument descended into a general free-for-all, Cassandra allowed herself a small smile.


	2. Maker's Breath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some people just shouldn't eat stew.

The atmosphere in the War Room was tense. Josephine and Leliana had spent the best part of an hour in vocal disagreement over the number of guards to accompany the Inquisitor to the Winter Palace. The Inquisitor himself kept interjecting that it really wasn’t necessary, one or two would be fine. Alright, maybe a platoon; no more. Certainly not a regiment! Cullen had begged the women to remember that half the army was still returning from Adamant and in no shape to storm a palace, then petered off into resigned silence, pulling a sheaf of reports from under his pauldron. 

As the argument reached its zenith (“You don’t honestly mean to tell me you want to send anything less than a batallion! Can you not see the paltry impression that would make?” “Surely you cannot be suggesting the Inquisitor is not an army on his own? No more than a squad! Besides, we will have my people inside already.”), Josephine’s irritated expression slowly changed to the politely interested mask she kept for especially irritating people. Leliana examined her friend closely for a moment before her face contorted violently.   
Conrad Trevelyan, ever helpful, coughed manfully and gasped “It appears they’re burning the latrines…wind in the wrong quarter…remind me to mention it to the sergeant…”   
Leliana nodded, “Perhaps we should adjourn until the wind changes?”

As Conrad courteously held the door for the ladies, he caught sight of the Commander, frozen into place against the wall, still holding his reports as if to read them. He caught Cullen’s eye, and watched as a vivid flush suffused his face. “Sorry,” he whispered “It…I…the stew…”   
Conrad suppressed a smirk, and left his Commander to marinate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You always read about them being all heroic, or tender, or dead sexy.   
> You never read about them being faintly gross.   
> Also, farts are funny. Just ask Mr. Badger and The Badgerette.


	3. Revenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One good turn deserves another, right?

Conrad Trevelyan, Inquisitor of Thedas, sleeps with the blanket right up under his nose. The Iron Bull, Chief of the Bull’s Chargers, is delighted to discover this. He finds it sweet. He finds it downright adorable. He finds it…useful.   
The morning after one particularly cheese-and-mead charged night, he finds it particularly useful.   
Easing himself away from his crashed-out paramour, Bull feels a rumbling deep in his gut. He’s heard Krem call it “the start of the after-grog-bog…” and a mischievous smirk creeps across his scarred face.   
The Iron Bull inches into position, holding the blanket near Conrad’s face. Wouldn’t do to wake him up now, although it will take more than some shifting to wake him up, if his hangover’s as bad as Bull thinks it is.  
The rumbling in his gut intensifies…and finally…  
The Iron Bull whips the blanket up over Conrad’s head and holds it down, tight.   
Within seconds, the Inquisitor starts thrashing and making gagging noises.   
“Sweet nug-fucking MAKER! Bull! Why?! Whyyyy!”  
“Give a cupcake, kadan, receive an Orlesian oven!”  
“I should have believed Rocky! I should have...uuugh!”

Bull’s stomach makes an especially ominous noise, and he lets his poor, stunk-out kadan up. As Conrad emerges, gasping for air, Bull grabs his book from the bedside table (some trash about a novice Templar and a worldly Enchanter) and makes for the latrines with all due haste.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I bet Iron Bull gives Dutch Ovens of Doom."   
> "If they're anything like yours, MrBadger, they're the foulest things on this earth."


End file.
